'And I invest you with the imperial mantle, O king!' added another Roman, whilst one of his companions drew off the tunic that had been thrown over the shoulders of Jesus. No doubt the wool of this garment had already adhered to the living flesh, for at the moment it was violently snatched from the shoulders of Jesus, he uttered a loud exclamation of pain, but this was all: he allowed himself to be patiently invested with the red cloak.
'Now, take thy sceptre, O great king!' added another soldier, kneeling before the young man, and placing in his hand the centurion's walking-stick; then all, with loud bursts of laughter, repeated, 'Hail to the King of the Jews, hail!'
A great many of them kneeled before him out of mockery, repeating:
'Hail, O great King!'
Jesus retained in his hand this mock sceptre, but pronounced not a word; this unalterable resignation, this angelic sweetness, so struck his tormentors, that, at first they were stupified; then, their rage increasing in proportion to the patience of the young Nazarene, they emulated each other in irritation, exclaiming: 'This is not a man, it is a statue!'
'All the blood he had in his veins has left him with the rods of the executioner. The coward, he does not even complain!'
'Coward!' said a veteran in a thoughtful air, after having long contemplated Jesus, although at first he had been one of his most cruel tormentors: 'No, he is no coward! no, to endure patiently all that we have made him suffer, requires more courage than to throw oneself sword in hand on the enemy. No!' he repeated, drawing aside, 'no, this man is no coward!'
And Genevieve fancied she saw a tear drop on the grey moustache of the old soldier.
The other soldiers laughed at the compassion of their companion, and exclaimed:
'He does not see that the Nazarene feigns resignation that we may pity him.'